


Power

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Orsino / Fenris - the other side of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power

Hawke didn’t care much for him. And that was fine, because Orsino was much too busy with Meredith’s accusations and the Circle’s flagging morale to worry about being liked — even by someone with Hawke’s influence.

Hawke liked order, and rigidity, and an iron fist.  
Meredith’s corner was getting crowded. Orsino tried not to think about it.

Isabela found him amusing — the rash of colour over the ridge of his cheeks when he was angry, his tendency towards impatient gesticulating when dealing with Hawke, the uncanny way the position of his brows showed exactly what he was feeling. Orsino sometimes bristled under her smirking, harmless scrutiny, but that was all.

Varric paid him very little mind, which is exactly how he treated Meredith, and to Anders the First Enchanter was more a symbol than a man.

But of all Hawke’s companions, there was one whose studied indifference Orsino couldn’t abide.

The warrior stood off to the side, behind the others, arms tightly folded under his breastplate, his every muscle straining to be elsewhere. His jaw worked, and Orsino could almost _hear_ his thoughts — _the hell is Hawke thinking … bring me here to listen to this drivel … would rather be killing him than listening to … no different than any other_ — though his stonewalled expression belied nothing beyond infinite boredom.

“I _understand_ , Hawke, and ordinarily I wouldn’t debate with you, but surely you cannot believe she is wholly in the right! I’m not asking for an open mind as much as I am asking for open _eyes_!”

Hawke’s non-committal response is expected, but still Orsino throws his hands in the air and turns away, those spots of colour rising high in his cheeks.

It was better to face the off-white wall of his office than be distracted by the twisting and relaxing of thigh muscles as the silent warrior behind Hawke impatiently shifted his feet.  
Surely such skin-tight attire couldn’t be reasonable for someone of his ilk. Was he not uncomfortable?

And was Orsino the first to find it distracting?

“Face it, First Enchanter — more of your mages need corralling than don’t. I don’t think Meredith is asking anything unreasonable from you. Stop trying to run the show — Enchanters, First or not, never do in the Circle.”

Orsino sensed a wave of approval from the warrior, and, reflexively, his fists clenched.

—

Never a dull night in Hightown, and tonight was no different. The sounds of an alleyway battle reached his ears long before he rounded the corner, and he cursed himself for having let time get away from him.

Meredith had stared at him, hard, when he passed her in the Gallows hours earlier. A creeping malevolence left its slimy impression on his skin long after.  
She wanted him restrained. It was no secret, to him or anyone else. He would enjoy his freedom while it remained in his shaky grasp.

Now, he wished he’d used better judgement.  
A head rolled towards him, and he leapt out of the way with a hiss of surprise. The motion caught the eyes of the victors — Hawke, and three of his friends.

 _Oh, but who_ else _would it have been._

“First Enchanter,” Hawke murmured stiffly. An assassin behind him attempted to rise, and without a backwards glance, he stilled the rogue with a thrust of his greatsword.  
He refused to take his eyes off Orsino.

“I was… just heading back to the Gallows…” And why was Orsino explaining himself, and why was his voice betraying even such a slight tremble?  
The hard, glittering eyes of the warrior behind Hawke, his back slightly hunched and his expression revealing a grim satisfaction with the body count, kept Orsino from regaining his full composure.

The male was covered in blood, from the points of his ears to the tips of his exposed toes. His snowy hair was matted with it. It likely wasn’t the first time he’d showered himself in such a manner.

“Rough night for a mage of any stature to be out alone,” he spoke, for the first time in Orsino’s presence, and the gravelly timbre of his voice was a jolt to both heart and loins.  
Even so, the malevolence wasn’t missed.

“Thank you for your concern,” Orsino retorted with more rancour than he’d intended.

They turned to leave, and Orsino continued on his way.  
And perhaps he’d projected, seen something that wasn’t truly there out of the pure desire to see it.  
But for nights after, Orsino couldn’t get the image of the warrior licking the back of his blood-stained hand out of his mind.

—

He’d heard of the concept, but he’d never imagined it.  
Now, as he paced the few square feet of his office and nursed a thirst that neither water nor wine would sate, he realised this was it.  
This was ‘cabin fever’. And it burned in him like an inferno.

Meredith had forbidden him to leave the Gallows. The courtyard was the only source of open air he could utilise, and Kirkwall air was by no means fresh.  
Constantly he all but fell into the high-backed chair, nearly bent double, forcing his lungs to expand and contract with a regular rhythm, forcing the nameless panic down, down into the depths where it belonged.  
It was a battle he always won by the skin of his teeth — battles in a war he could never hope to win.

The mages were suffering as well. He thrust himself between petty fistfights on an almost daily basis, and was nearly thrown down a flight of stairs by a particularly ornery acolyte.  
The Senior Enchanters were making themselves scarce.  
Occasionally, one of the younger Enchanters would peek into Orsino’s office worriedly, but Orsino always sent them away.

They weren’t supposed to see him like this. None of them were.

And Hawke and his friends were constantly in and out now — he caught glimpses of them as they trooped into Meredith’s office, receiving their orders, kissing her ass.  
Speaking to them would do no good. But oh, Orsino’s voice ached to be used.

The mages wouldn’t listen to him. Meredith wouldn’t even entertain his presence unless it was to issue an order he wasn’t granted breath to refuse. And Hawke and his friends found him ineffectual and rebellious.

What would it take?

He found himself wishing for Anders, Anders and his voice and his never-flagging passion. But Orsino hadn’t seen the rebel mage in weeks. He feared the worst.

His chest was growing tight again. He wrenched the office door open and stumbled into the hallway, tugging nervously on his robes and pushing his fingers through his hair to tame any rogue strands.  
Meredith wanted his madness. He couldn’t give it to her. Not if he cared about the Circle. Not if he cared about magekind.

He could hear Hawke’s rumbling voice from behind Meredith’s closed door, and he walked faster, away from them, towards the courtyard. Perhaps one of the Senior Enchanters would be there, someone who’d quietly weave calming spells into their small talk and quell the panic rising in Orsino’s throat.

He shouldn’t have darted into the narrow hall, shortcut or not. He should have gone the long way, the way trodden by other mages and the required templar or two.  
But there were many things Orsino _should_ have done.

“First Enchanter,” came the throaty drawl, and a tired groan tried to escape Orsino before he sealed his mouth against it.

Hawke’s silent, contemptuous companion stepped out of the shadows to block his path. All Orsino saw was a shock of too-white hair and the silhouette of toned legs encased in thin, clinging fabric.

“Serah,” Orsino spoke in remote greeting, but his voice was thin and unsupported. His heart was thudding in his temples. “Now, if you’ll pardon me…”

There was something unnatural — something _magical_ — in this one’s speed. Something to do with the white patterns that curved up his throat and around his arms, Orsino thought fleetingly, but he could think no more with his shoulder blades digging into the wall behind him and his throat spasming against the warrior’s clenched hand.

“You like blood, do you?” That harsh voice was _close_ now, close enough to bypass Orsino’s ears and stab him dead in the groin. He shut his eyes against the unbidden onslaught, against the warrior’s choking hand and contemptuous sneer, against the panic and the other, wilder emotion.

He shut his eyes and turned his face as far away as he could, a curl in his lip, but the hand pressed harder, and he gasped helplessly for breath.

“I happen to like it as well.”  
Orsino gave a strangled cry when the blade pressed against his abdomen — even through the folds of his heavy robes, he felt its keen edge.  
Perhaps he felt it so easily because he was straining towards it, towards the hand at his throat, towards the warrior himself.

To know this was to be shamed by it. He struggled for control, to sag back against the wall, but it was too late. The warrior had balked at this wanton display, drawn back, lost his momentum.

As quickly as he’d come, he was gone.  
Minutes later, Orsino emerged in the courtyard, trembling but otherwise composed, and no one was there to ease him towards forgetting.

—

 _All mages want power._  
That was it, right?

Fenris narrowed his eyes as a rat skittered across his feet, one of many to do so with customary Kirkwallian boldness.  
All of the city’s rats were unashamed of their nature.

 _All mages want power._ But it seemed the First Enchanter had been more eager to give it up than he’d realised.

Fenris was quick. Like a serpent, he gave his warning and then he struck, and there was very little delay between the two events.  
Fenris was strong. He was tough. He took a hit better than Hawke, better than anyone. Experience was a wonderful teacher.

But Orsino was all of these things, as well. Orsino could have fought him, could have made his skin burn under Fenris’ unsuspecting grasp, could have even thrust a knee upward and evened the playing field the old-fashioned way.

Orsino had struggled, but only perfunctorily. And when Fenris’ borrowed dagger sought him, he’d begged to be found.  
Fenris knew the nature of what he’d exuded at that moment — knew it well, because he’d felt it many a time while in Danarius’ grasp.

To have that power… to know that _his voice alone_ was enough to undo someone of such high standing…

Whether _he_ wanted Orsino was irrelevant. Orsino wanted _him_. And, perversely, Fenris relished being wanted by someone who knew they couldn’t have him.

—

_Fenris._

Orsino had finally cornered Hawke — the warrior had been absent from his company on this visit to the Templar Hall, and Orsino recognised that as opportunity best taken.

The warrior’s name was Fenris. And the First Enchanter knew now what spurred his unflagging hatred for mages.

Hawke would tell this Fenris that Orsino had been asking about him.  
And Fenris would come.

—

“Come in,” Orsino called distractedly, his fingers drifting over a dog-eared page, his eyes following them. The knock on his door barely registered.

The atmosphere in the office changed — the temperature dropped, subtly, but the chill ran right through Orsino’s robes.  
Slowly, he turned his gaze upward. Then closed the tome. Started to get to his feet.

“Has your curiosity been sated, First Enchanter?” The mockery in his tone was unmistakable, and heat bloomed in Orsino’s cheeks.

“I… apologise if I was indiscreet, but…” His words were failing him, and he subsided, brow furrowing. Fenris was advancing, unhurriedly, with the air of someone who knew just how much command he had over the situation. The backs of Orsino’s knees hit the chair behind him, and he barely managed not to fall into it.

“You know I despise you. You know I despise everything you stand for. You know I would kill you in a heartbeat.” A glow suffused his skin, the same glow that Orsino had witnessed just as a raider’s heart had been ripped from his chest. 

But fear, the kind of fear that saved lives, had deserted him. He absently raised a hand, hovering it above the charcoal-grey breastplate, feeling the electric hum of the lyrium as his hand was bathed in blue.

Fenris had ceased speaking, simply staring at Orsino, his hand.

“You don’t want to kill me,” Orsino murmured, and he was astounded at his own poor judgement.

But anger didn’t sharpen Fenris’ features, nor did his hand raise against Orsino. He didn’t move at all. He was a stage actor who’d forgotten his lines, panicked, his eyes darting for the prompter.

“It was better when you did.” Orsino raised his hand just a few inches, enough to linger above one of the twisting white lines on Fenris’ throat. And just like that, like a puppet whose strings had been jerked, Fenris’ own hand shot up to cut off the mage’s windpipe.  
Always the hand here, always. _Silence him, and his power was taken._  
Thrown into the chair behind him, Orsino gasped for breath, his eyes widening when Fenris’ knee ground into his groin.

“You’re sick, you know that?” The electric thrill that Fenris’ furious growl incited duelled with the lancing pain, and Orsino ceased to note the difference between the sensations. He was sprawled in the chair, arms draped over the sides, thighs splayed, staring up at his assaulter with a mixture of fright and something else entirely.

” _Stop_ that!” The hand around Orsino’s throat convulsed, and his vision blurred, the world becoming soft and mercurial as his brain cells ached for oxygen. Though everything above his neck was dulled, everything below it came achingly alive.  
There was no more pain. There was no more _pleasure_. Just sensation.  
He could barely hear Fenris speak. But he felt his voice.

“What is wrong with you, that you do not fear me? You think I like this vulgar display of yours? Are you mad, or simply dim-witted?”

The world had gone alarmingly greyscale, but Orsino was unaware of it. As he was unaware of the way he arched, or the sublimated look on his face, or the conspicuous tenting of his robes just beside Fenris’ knee.

And then, suddenly, air. Air, and the jarring return of awareness, and Fenris striding for the door.

“Wait!” Orsino croaked, wincing as he massaged his neck. _Thank the Maker for high collars._

Fenris paused. Briefly. Orsino cleared his throat and spoke without thinking.  
“You are… impressive. Awe-inspiring. Death is usually… a vulgar slice of a sword, or a blinding blast from a staff, death is… is rarely so… _stunning_.  
I do not fear dying, of course, but that is not the point. I am infinitely sorry that your power came at such a great cost, but you _are_ powerful. And I… I respond to that.”

He faltered, wincing at his own candour, pushing his hands through his hair with a halting, reflexive motion.  
“I also believe that you would not have come here again if that truly put you off.”

“You think you know me, mage?” A growled challenge, to level the playing field.

“You can hurt me all you—”

“I don’t want your permission.”

“Fenris, let me _in_ —”

“The next time I see you, I _will_ kill you.”

A beat passed after the door slammed behind him.  
Then another.

Eventually, Orsino’s hands slid up to cover his ears, deafened by the mocking silence.

—

What bliss it was to open his vein for the last time.  
What bliss it was to see disgust and horror war for dominance on Fenris’ scowling face.

Had he known? That submission was power in itself? That to do what he wanted was to do what Orsino wanted? That perhaps he wasn’t the only cunning one?  
Had he gloated in the knowledge that he’d snatched back the reins? That only in denying and humiliating Orsino, _he_ retained the power?

Was this the same feeling he’d felt, the feeling Orsino experienced now as he receded from consciousness, letting the demon take over?

All mages? No. All _people_ want power.  
But perhaps we’ll settle for being remembered.


End file.
